


Punctuated with Blood and Scythes of Tine

by Silverhaunter



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AH - Freeform, But it mostly just focuses on me being back on my bs, But yeah it's good, Gen, Hannigram I guess, M/M, Nightmarestag, OR IS IT, Poetic, Raven Stag, Ravenstag, Short, Swiggity Swag it's the nightmare stag, i don't remember, i think, idk which way it's 'spelled', nightmare stag, swiggity swag the nightmare stag, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 23:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverhaunter/pseuds/Silverhaunter
Summary: Will is shrouded in darkness more void and black than the night sky, it’s source glimmering in raven feathers, in scythes of tines glistening in the light that shouldn’t exist in the darkness he’s coated thickly in, as his eyes refuse to stay open and the stag breathes on him, his lungs heaving and contracting as they stammer and try to work. His heart aches fiercely and then begins to beat.------“A man who walks in step with the song woven by death, do you still hear it when you close your eyes?” Their bodies are close, Will with his back to Hannibal, who has a knife in his grip,  and a hand on Will’s neck, as the Ravenstag stares at Will with eyes black as blood in the moonlight.“Always,” he murmurs, “Even when they are open, I hear the melody that has been designed for me, bowed with a blade and punctuated with the taste of my blood.”





	Punctuated with Blood and Scythes of Tine

                “I was stabbed as a cop.”

    The slender blade slides easily and deeply into the gap of his ribs, and yet he barely recognizes the pain, until all at once the burn of the metal seeps into his flesh and is absolutely everywhere. Therefore, his hand automatically releases his only chance of survival as it jolts at the intrusion, and the gun skids out of his grip. He barely feels it as his feet twist underneath him, the agony all shifting to a central point where the knife _twists_ and sucks his breath from his body. Panicking, he desperately fights for chilly breaths even as he latches onto the hand pulling away from him, digging in with his nails aa the world slips away like his body sliding on his blood, pulling out from beneath him. Like he’s flipped a switch his world begins changing, becoming _too bright_ and yet filled with cobweb blackness. He wants to tell himself it’s not that bad, but the blood is hot and sort of sticky and suddenly he’s on his back, gasping, his muscles tingling. Yhe hostage is _screaming_ and everything is happening all at once. ...Yet his mind is strangely silent, even as his eyelids flutter shut like moths freshly born from nightmares, laced with a sweet and breathless understanding that he might just die here.

He is carried by the midnight tar of unconciousness into a graveyard almost-silence.

    There is nothing in the eternal shadow but an obsidian bull elk raising its head, and like some of the terrors he has at night where he doesn’t see what’s around him but he _knows_ it’s there, he understands fully and completely at the base of his being that this stag is _death incarnate_. Nevertheless, He isn’t scared. Perhaps part of him is grateful for the silence. The Stag leads him away from where he emerged from the noir ink of his undoing, and he feels his limbs grow colder, and distantly, becoming numb, as he walks with a blind obedience in step with the powerful creature. Becoming chilly and calmly restless, he feels his breath part from him with finality as it leads him into the source of the void, his eyes once again attempting to close. He slowly maneuvers his vision upward because _he’s not ready,_ and the Stag shifts to support his body as it falls, out of his control, and the beast lies down slowly, as he falls on his side, pressed against his back, the side of it’s muzzle and jaw against his head.

 Will is shrouded in darkness more void and black than the night sky, it’s source glimmering in raven feathers, in scythes of tines glistening in the light that shouldn’t exist in the darkness he’s coated so thoroughly in, as his eyes refuse to stay open and the stag breathes life into him, his lungs heaving and contracting as they stammer and try to revive. His heart aches fiercely and then begins to _beat._

 

The Stag is his reaper that was cheated of its prey, and he tells them, specifically, nobody at all, but they just shake their heads and say, ‘It was a traumatic experience’. He was stabbed as a cop, is what he learns to say, but he still gets those sympathetic grimaces that he absolutely _hates._

Hannibal Lecter gives him a different sort of look, and the Ravenstag, as he begins to call it, (when he’s angry it’s the Nightmarestag or the murder stag or a thousand other things, but Ravenstag feels regal and more appropriate,) seems to _stare_ at Doctor Lecter like an _equal._

And when Will has a seizure and Doctor Lecter takes the form of a man made of volcanic rock, igneous marble, void darkness and shadowy cobwebs, he _knows._

“You’re the Chesapeake Ripper. And the Copycat. Cassie Boyle and Marissa Shurr were gifts, weren’t they?” For some reason he is breathless, “Offerings. To a god of blood and carnage.”

“Will.”

“No,” his breath shudders as it leaps from his lungs, “not for a god, for-“

“A man who walks in step with the song woven by death,” and he whispers, like he’s telling Will something beautiful, “do you still hear it when you close your eyes?” Their bodies are close, Will with his back to Hannibal, who has a knife in his grip,  and a hand on Will’s neck, the pads of his fingers flush against the jackrabbit strum of his pulse. Will sighs as the Ravenstag stares at him with eyes black as blood in the moonlight.

“Always,” he murmurs, “Even when they are open, I hear the melody that has been designed for me, bowed with a blade and punctuated with the taste of my blood.”

“Shall I play it for you?”

“My death is a symphony to which you are the conductor, but you do not hold the instruments. You simply guide them, groom them, teach them and watch them try to play something to which they do not have the notes. You carry the sheet music but you cannot finish the song.”

“And you, Dear Will?”

“I will watch and I will sabotage your musicians, and I will stand beside you as you bow to an empty house.”

“But you will bow.” Will turns to face him, bodies flush, the blade forgotten on the counter at Will's back.

“Always, Doctor Lecter.”

“Truly, Will.”

“Forever, Hannibal.”

**Author's Note:**

> So that was short but hey it felt poetic
> 
> also yes I did edit it


End file.
